Doesn't Do Coke
by Amory Vain
Summary: Aliens made them do it. The prompt was "Kirk/Chekov - Cocaine. preferably Chekov's first time - with drugs, not sex." Kirk/Chekov; warnings for drug use and dubious consent.


**He Doesn't Do Coke, Just Likes the Way It Smells [[688 Words]]**  
_Star Trek 2009_  
Kirk/Chekov  
Aliens Made Them Do It.  
The request was _Kirk/Chekov - Cocaine. preferably Chekov's first time. (With drugs, not sex.)_. Sorry, this one's more sex pollen than coke.

* * *

_It would be wise to do as they ask, Captain. _Commander Spock had spoken in low tones when the ambassadors had invited Kirk and the ensign planetside. _Lieutenant Uhura and I will be monitoring all transmissions to ensure your safety._

He wonders if they're watching _now_ as he sits up, palm leaving a print on the metallic surface of the table, already dirty with the powdery residue, remnants of neat lines they'd arranged moments before. No, they've had their communicators off since they walked into the room. It's just them now, he and Kirk and these officials.

And the drugs.

It's better after the second inhale, purple-white compound no longer burning his nostrils on the way down (up?). Chekov sniffs again, wipes his nose. Smiles appreciatively over at their alien benefactors, not wanting to appear ungrateful or unaccommodating or any other _un-_ that could derail their negotiations. And it's not a _bad_ feeling, really, once he's done marveling at the way both the ceiling and floor are mirrored, reflecting each other into infinity, and his captain's name spelled backwards is almost the same as forwards though the vowel sounds completely different and why was _he_ invited down? He'd never even _spoken_ to these dignitaries, only glimpsed them briefly on their quick tour of the ship, earlier that day.

"Aren't you going to have some?"

"No. It is only for our guests." They're so _strange_. He thinks he'd wonder at their purpose, if he could keep hold of one thought for longer than thirty seconds. Everything is just so _distracting_ right now, reflections shifting and kaleidoscopic every time someone moves. He shakes his head to clear it and catches what appears to be a sympathetic smile from one of their hosts, reclining on a chair opposite he and the captain. He's so far away--the space between them feels like light years and Chekov ponders how he can _miss_ someone he's never seen before in his life.

He wants to be touched. His skin practically _tingles_; he rubs his hands together, one up the back of his forearm and then down across the palm, raises a hand to his mouth and licks it, bites tentatively at a fingertip and groans. It all feels so strange and new and _interesting_, and he sucks fingers into his mouth and lets his eyes fall shut, appreciates the wet in-out drag over his lips till his hand is caught and jerked away.

Chekov looks up with a gasp, expecting--something bad, half-formed thoughts of protocol and reprimand. Instead, it's Kirk, kneeling beside him on the cushion, watching him with blown pupils and a palm pressed to the front of his slacks. "K-Keptain, I--"

He loses that sentence when the man pulls the captured hand to his own mouth, licks up his already-wet fingers and sucks, nips at the webbing between and drags the hand over his face till Chekov tangles slick fingers in his captain's hair and brings him close. There's a trail of moisture across one cheek, now, and Chekov licks, half-expecting that to help the issue. It doesn't, but Kirk moans and kisses him, pushes till the boy's lying flat and pinned on the floor. "God, your skin feels like--_peppermint_."

"But peppermint is a _taste_--" which doesn't matter, because his clothes are _burning_ him and he needs them off, right _now_. His captain helps, fingers teasing and pinching in just the right_wrong_ way and Chekov arches into the touch. One of their hosts speaks then, voice even, detached, catching Chekov's gaze when he turns to look. "There is more on the table if you want it first."

"_Yes_." Kirk answers for him, snatching the baggie with an absent, one-handed swipe. "I'm," he trails off, captivated by the shimmering powder for a moment before turning back to Chekov with a hungry grin. His mouth is _red_.

No, it's purple, but then Chekov kisses him again, sour and dry and not nearly as fun to swallow as it was to inhale, but it's better this way because there's _more_ and there's touching, and everything shines bright and brilliant like the sun.


End file.
